The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [18]
In front of the main building was a long black car and leaning against it were two men dressed in business suits which failed to make them look respectable. They must be the Don’s bodyguards and chauffeur left down here out of respect for the academics Don Croce was visiting. Adonis saw their looks of astonishment and then amusement at his small stature, his perfect tailoring, the briefcase under his arm. He flashed a cold stare which startled them. Could such a small man be a Friend of the Friends?
The office of the President looked more like a library than a business center; he was a scholar more than an administrator. Books lined all the walls, the furniture was massive but comfortable. Don Croce sat in a huge chair sipping his espresso. His face reminded Hector Adonis of the prow of a ship in the Iliad, warped by years of battle and hostile seas. The Don pretended they had never met, and Adonis allowed himself to be introduced. The President of course knew this was a farce, but young Doctor Nattore was taken in.
The President was the tallest man at the University; Hector Adonis was the shortest. Immediately, out of courtesy, the President sat down and slumped in his chair before he spoke.
“We have a small disagreement,” the President said. At this Doctor Nattore snorted with exasperation, but Don Croce inclined his head slightly in accord. The President went on. “Don Croce has a nephew who yearns to be a doctor. Professor Nattore says he does not have the necessary grades to be certified. A tragedy. Don Croce has been so kind as to come and present his nephew’s case, and since Don Croce has done so much for our University, I thought we should try our best to grant him some accommodation.”
Don Croce said amiably without a hint of sarcasm, “I’m illiterate myself, yet no one can say I have been unsuccessful in the world of business.” Certainly, Hector Adonis thought, a man who could bribe ministers, order murders, terrify shopkeepers and factory owners did not have to read and write. Don Croce continued, “I found my path by experience. Why could not my nephew do the same? My poor sister will be heartbroken if her son does not have the word ‘Doctor’ in front of his name. She is a true believer in Christ, she wants to help the world.”
Doctor Nattore, with that insensitivity so common to one who is in the right, said, “I cannot change my position.”
Don Croce sighed. He said cajolingly, “What harm can my nephew do? I will arrange a government post with the army, or with a Catholic hospital for the aged. He will hold their hands and listen to their troubles. He is extremely amiable, he will charm the old wrecks. What do I ask? A little shuffling of the papers you shuffle here.” He glanced around the room, contemptuous of the books that formed its walls.
Hector Adonis, extremely disturbed by this meekness of Don Croce, a danger signal in such a man, thought angrily that it was easy for the Don to take such a position. His men immediately shipped him to Switzerland at the slightest indisposition of his liver. But Adonis knew it was up to him to solve this impasse. “My dear Doctor Nattore,” he said, “surely we can do something. A little private tutoring, extra training at a charity hospital?”
Despite his birth in Palermo, Doctor Nattore did not look Sicilian. He was fair and balding and he showed his anger, something no true Sicilian would ever do in this delicate situation. Doubtless it was the defective genes inherited from some long-ago Norman conqueror. “You don’t understand, my dear Professor Adonis. The young fool wants to be a surgeon.”
Jesus, Joseph, our Virgin Mary and all her Saints, Hector Adonis thought. This is real trouble.
Taking advantage of the stunned silence on his colleague’s face, Doctor Nattore went on. “Your nephew knows nothing about anatomy. He hacked a cadaver to pieces as if he were carving a sheep for the spit. He misses most of his classes, he does not prepare for his test papers, he enters the